


Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance, Season 3 Finale, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Star Trek References, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night all of New York City is plunged into darkness, Harold Finch looks up and sees the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KRyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/gifts).



>  
> 
> Written for [Slashorific 2015](http://slashorific.livejournal.com/), over on LJ. This story can also be read [on Dreamwidth](http://slashorific.dreamwidth.org/7254.html).
> 
> Warning for a very brief mention of Reese's having killed people, slightly graphic description of this in a flashback.
> 
> Spoilers for 2x22 God Mode, 3x21 Beta, 3x23 Deus Ex Machina and 4x01 Panopticon.
> 
> My endless thanks to my beta reader [KRyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn), for inspiring so much of this fic, pointing me in the direction of quotes, cheerleading and editing. Many thanks to [Dana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana) for giving this a readthrough in its early stages, and [potc](http://archiveofourown.org/users/potc) for listening to me whine about not writing. A huge thanks to [rebelxxwaltz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz) for her local New Yorker knowledge on stargazing locations. 
> 
> Title from the album by Fatboy Slim.

_For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream._  
  
**********  
  
_[July 2014, New York]_  
  
"Let's go!" Collier commands.  
  
There are people scrambling towards the exit. Harold gets to his feet. His heart thumps painfully. Collier ushers him out of the courthouse at gunpoint.  
  
Outside in the night air, Harold's vision adjusts slowly to the unusual intensity of the darkness.  
  
To witness the lights gone from the entire city.  
  
It's breathtaking, and terrible. There are cars parked haphazardly in the streets, the constant blare of sirens. A blackout of this magnitude...  
  
How many accidents have there been already, how many hospital patients in the middle of surgery when the power went out, how many innocent lives lost because of Vigilance's actions? How many people safe in their homes, watching on laptops or tablets or smartphones, with dwindling batteries, as they discover that the reason for all this...is Harold.  
  
Everyone knows, now, what he did. Three years ago he'd been ready to tell the truth with Nathan at his side, the two of them facing the media together. The ferry bombing had effectively silenced that disclosure. Tonight he finally went through with it, to protect the very same woman who ordered Nathan's execution. Strange, how these things turn out. How the world is irrevocably changed, by a series of contingent decisions.  
  
When they reach the roof, Harold realises he can see the stars. A huge abundance of them. This would be a near impossibility at any other time, given the light pollution typically generated by the city. Harold experiences a moment of stunned, appreciative wonder, before the jab of Collier's rifle at his spine brings him back down to earth.  
  
The glimpse of the endless sea of stars makes Harold think of a lot of things, in rapid succession.  
  
He'd consciously based the graphic design of the Machine's admin interface on star formations, the strongest and most flexible connections in the universe. Van Gogh's famous painting, with its interweaving map of swirling lines and colors, had demonstrated how everything can be linked to something else; stars and suns, cities and people.  
  
In an abandoned office a few hours ago, Greer described to him how his younger self had seen a sunset in a sky on fire. Greer viewed that as a weakness, a tragic mistake, but Harold knows it for what it truly is: the choice to recognise beauty in a damaged place. The mind's determination to shape sense out of meaningless chaos. For Harold's younger self to see in his own father's illness the opportunity to create something that could help him, a machine that could think, could flash a series of lights when his dad's memory failed him.  
  
His father's words echo back to him across the years: _The world spins on dreamers like you, Harold._ He is grateful, to have seen the sky, the sheer size of it, to remind him that no matter what happens, there will continue to be light, even when he is no longer around to witness it.  
  
But there are so many more things he had wanted to create. Less contentious, more helpful things, which would have made life easier instead of getting people killed. So many ideas he never got to share. So many books he hasn't read.  
  
The world he knows, the one he'd been trying to save, to make a better place when he wrote those first lines of code twelve years ago - he has lived long enough to see it start to end. He is reluctant to say he has failed; the Machine had exceeded his expectations. It made connections, it stopped bad people, helped him to prolong the lives of young women, old men, tiny babies. Parents, siblings, lovers, friends.  
  
And none of that possible without John Reese.  
  
Harold considers his last words to John: _she's all that matters_. Given the opportunity he would have liked to clarify that, to include John in the list of people who matter to him very much. As it stands, meeting John's heartbroken gaze on the bridge is going to haunt Harold in his final moments.  
  
He tries to recall what John looks like smiling, the feel of his silver hair between Harold's fingers. It takes _effort_ , as though he's dredging up the memories from distances as great as faraway galaxies. It has been too long since he last saw John's face light up with joy.  
  
There's an element of guilt, now, too. Having so recently seen Grace, to have held her hand for the briefest of moments...Harold had never thought he'd get the chance to be near her again. After nearly three years, he wishes he could call that closure, but realistically there's no such thing. He's desperately sorry this mess had to come anywhere near her. And thinking of John as he's about to die...it oughtn't be a betrayal of Grace but it somehow feels like one. Right before his other death, the one he made her believe was real, he was thinking of Nathan.  
  
But hopefully she is safe now, which is more than can be said for John. _Keep yourself alive, Harold. I'll be coming for you_. Harold is well aware Reese will not hesitate to take on Decima, the government and Vigilance combined in order to get Harold back...and that terrifies him. If Reese doesn't keep his promise to find him, that's all right, so long as John lives. Harold only hopes the man won't arrive seconds too late, and be forced to see...  
  
Of course, there are also stars on the American flag which Collier so proudly marches under.  
  
"Line them up, facing the courthouse." Collier orders. They stand close to the edge, their backs to the guns, and this is a firing squad, this isn't justice.  
  
Above their terror, the stars in the sky paint an endless story in perfect silver calligraphy.  
  
***  
  
_[May 1997, Registan Desert, Afghanistan]_  
  
Over the jagged ridges of the mountains, and over John's head, a stunning backdrop of stars is twinkling brightly. The ranks of Humvees and tanks lined up in the sand, with their thick aluminum shells and enormous wheels, suddenly seem childish and insignificant compared to that view.  
  
Looking up at it, John is reminded of something Jessica had read to him once, when they were both sprawled out on the floor at her place, drunkenly acting out passages from various books which they haphazardly tugged off the shelves.  
  
Jess genuinely liked Sylvia Plath, though. When she realized what was in her hands she seemed to make a special effort not to drop it, and there was a softer, far less mocking edge to her recital of the poem.  
  
According to its metaphor, the stars were pinpricks of light shining through peepholes in the night's black carbon paper. _A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things_. At the time, John had been an asshole about it and snorted at her, saying "Oooh, that's deep." She'd clipped him round the ear for disrespecting her favourite poet and he'd captured her wrist and they'd rolled around on the rug until they were both dizzy.  
  
Nowadays, he thinks maybe that poem has a point.  
  
It's dangerous for John to be thinking about such things. Out here in the desert there is nothing to protect him from the elements, or the hostiles who could potentially be advancing on him in the gloom. He has volunteered to take first watch tonight, as he had done every night this week. The guys teased him for being so gung ho, but he knows that is a good sign, because the more fuss they make of him, the greater the chance of someone higher up taking note of his commitment. John knows his physical training and marksmanship scores are already among the best in the whole camp, but it never hurts to give a little extra.  
  
Sleep has never held much appeal for him, anyway.  
  
Being awake in the quiet gives him time and space to think, to dream. He can't control his dreams; more often than not his subconscious takes him down paths that end in snapped necks, gaping holes in foreheads.  
  
Awake he can wonder: where else in the world could I be now? Back in America, living a normal life? A steady job, a couple of good drinking buddies to meet up with on weekends. His arm slung over Jess's shoulders, leaning into each other.  
  
Or maybe he'd be better off free and single, have a dog. Go surfing at weekends, be a yoga instructor.  
  
But he wants this life, this path that he is on, doesn't he? His dad was career army, and this is John's way of riding out to meet him, following in his footsteps. And if dad proved anything, going home after this doesn't get you anywhere. Going home gets you killed, in a stupid accident instead of a blaze of glory.  
  
So of course he's staying. Of course he wants to achieve higher rank. The stars taunting him with their wealth of bright possibilities is only his imagination.  
  
The night, carbon black and cool, settles over him like a blanket.  
  
***  
  
_[September 2014, Staten Island, New York]_  
  
Harold owns a house in one of the more exclusive areas on Staten Island, under a pseudonym even Samaritan won't be able to link to him. From his back garden he gets a stunning view of the water and Brooklyn beyond, Todt Hill being some of the highest ground on the entire east coast.  
  
Light pollution is once again a factor; there are fewer stars visible overhead than there had been the night of the blackout. Since they can't leave New York for a more remote location, or be seen together in a public space designed for stargazing such as the planetarium, this is the most viable compromise. The gated community values its privacy, with tall, wide hedges and vast driveways.  
  
Nobody knows him here, yet the fact remains that he is taking a risk, gambling with their cover identities. He took the subway after work, and then the ferry to get here, using his considerable skills to stay off as many cameras as possible. He knows John will have taken similar precautions.  
  
The unsigned greetings card which landed on Detective Riley's desk this morning contained only a string of numbers which would decode to a set of coordinates and the house number, along with instructions to arrive at half past eleven, and to let himself in. This will be the first time they have met since leaving the library behind, seven weeks ago.  
  
Harold can hardly wait.  
  
He listens to John making his way through the house, no doubt clearing every room with his customary caution, before finding him in the garden.  
  
The patio door slides open behind him, and a relieved voice says, "Harold."  
  
Harold turns on the spot. "John."  
  
And there's that smile Harold hasn't seen in too long.  
  
Neither of them get the chance to say anything further. There’s an excited bark and Bear bounds up the lawn to greet his other master. The dog had been busy nosing around in the unkempt bank of autumn flowers until John's voice caught his attention.  
  
"Hey, Bear!" John puts his gun away, drops to a crouch and enthusiastically ruffles the Malinois' fur, as the dog jumps from side to side, headbutting and pawing at any part of John he can reach. He doesn't quite knock him onto his back this time, but it's a close thing. They're going to have to get used to being apart.  
  
"Missed you, buddy," John tells Bear, tucking his fingers under the wide collar and scratching as though soothing an itch. "Been taking good care of Finch for me?"  
  
"He hasn't eaten any of my students yet, so that's a good start."  
  
John laughs, but Bear turns baleful eyes on Harold, so he amends: "He's been very well behaved, really."  
  
"Good boy," John praises, and Bear yips and leans into the kiss John plants on the top of his head. Then he scampers up the lawn into the house, clearly expecting treats. John straightens, his soppy grin fading into a more serious, earnest expression. "I'm so glad you're both okay. Have you heard anything from Root and Shaw?"  
  
"No. I think... for our sanity, we have to assume they're fine until further notice."  
  
John nods. "No news is good news." He tucks his gloved hands into his pockets. "So, why now? And why here?"  
  
Harold understands why John is asking this. He'd tried to get in touch with Harold once before, by leaving a message with Harold's favorite icecream seller. Harold had chosen to ignore the offer, still too skittish, too wary of Samaritan's strength. John wants to know what changed his mind.  
  
"It's simply time. I've waited -" He cuts himself off, starts again. "We've become entrenched enough in our new lives by now. One would hope that a night off, given neither of us act outside of reasonable parameters for our covers where we can be seen -"  
  
John interrupts, shaking his head fondly. "Just admit you missed me, Harold."  
  
By way of reassurance, John fishes out his cell phone from a coat pocket and leaves it on the outdoor table, along with the removed battery. Harold's own phone is inside the house, next to his laptop, neither of them wirelessly connected or currently switched on.  
  
Harold shuts his eyes, breathes deeply. The clean scent of the nearby witch hazel shrubs calms him. "I did," he admits, very quietly. He opens his eyes again, and repeats it more confidently. "I have missed you."  
  
John swallows, blinking rapidly. His expression is unbearably sad. "I feel almost homeless again, without the Library and you."  
  
Harold frowns at this, gesturing toward the house. "You could take Bear for a while, if that would help?"  
  
John looks momentarily panic-stricken. "God, no, I couldn't. I'd sleep even less if I knew you were completely defenseless."  
  
Harold is about to protest, but John corrects himself quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."  
  
"I understand. Having Bear with me is a great source of comfort, especially since he reminds me of you."  
  
Bear reminds Harold, specifically, of early mornings, waking up with John's forehead pressed to his, and a paw wedged under his knees where the dog had clambered up on the bed and squashed himself between them. And of long walks after dark, flanked by his two closest and most fiercely loyal friends.  
  
John seems to find this amusing. "Faithful hound, huh?"  
  
Picking up gratefully on John's effort to lighten the tone, Harold teases back. "You did follow me around for the first six months that we worked together."  
  
John shrugs, not looking particularly ashamed. They have always had something of a tacit agreement when it comes to stalking one another. "You made yourself exceptionally interesting." He confesses, stepping a few paces closer on the grass: "You're still a puzzle I can't solve."  
  
Harold smiles broadly for a moment, proudly straightens his glasses. When he continues, he allows some of his excitement to filter into his tone. "To answer your other question of 'why here'...There was something I wanted to share with you."  
  
There is a basket on the table beside John's phone. Finch walks over and pulls a large, brown plaid blanket from it.  
  
John sizes up the basket in mild surprise. "You made us a picnic?"  
  
"Ahhh, no." Harold instantly feels foolish. John has come here straight from work, he's probably starving. "Are you hungry? We could..."  
  
"No, I'm not, it's fine." John denies, too quickly. Harold regards him skeptically, and privately resolves to get a square meal down him before he lets John leave here in the morning. He turns and carries the bundle to the point where the garden begins to slope steeply downwards, shakes it out flat over a section of lawn. Reclining chairs would be easier on his back, but he would like to be able to touch John, if he is permitted to do so.  
  
"Sit beside me," Harold offers, easing himself to the ground and patting the stretch of cloth. The grass beneath the blanket is faintly damp with dew. Reese joins him, stretching his long legs out, and Harold watches his face closely as John takes in the view.  
  
High up as they are, this spot offers an uninterrupted panorama of the surrounding area, all the way to the edge of the island. Ahead of them, the smooth water of the Lower Bay glints black and blue, and beyond it Brooklyn, in all its lit-up glory. Among that spectacular array of lights is the IFT building, as well as the rooftop on which he and John stood together with a timer counting down.  
  
John doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.  
  
Harold reaches out his right hand across the space between them and thrills as John immediately takes it, interlocking their fingers.  
  
John shifts his gaze to Harold and the look of helpless wonder on his face doesn't change.  
  
Harold meets that look directly, heart fit to burst, until he has to stop and turn his head away, back to the view of the water and the skyline.  
  
"The night of the blackout," he begins, stroking John's thumb with his own, "all those city lights were gone and in their stead I could see the stars. Greater in number than I will ever see over New York again. Naturally in my overwrought state of mind I reasoned this was some kind of cosmic sign that my time was up at last." He gives a self-deprecating shrug. John grips his hand even tighter. "My greatest regret wasn't building the Machine, it was that I had never shared that sight with you."  
  
John sounds like he's about to choke on his own tongue. "Finch..."  
  
"Look up, John. Look."  
  
John does. It's not as bright as the view Harold remembers, of course, but the height above sea level here cancels out a lot of the pollution, so it is far better than average. John is smiling, crookedly. Harold wants to touch the sweet, curving grooves which form either side of his mouth. Commit them to memory, so that the next time he finds himself close to death, they'll come to mind easy as breathing.  
  
John sways a little, tilting his head as far as it will go, exposing his throat. Harold lets go of his hand and steadies him between the shoulder blades.  
  
"Lie back," Harold suggests, thinking of joining him. While sitting, there's only so far and for so long he himself can look up at the sky before his damaged neck starts to pain him.  
  
"Wait." John takes off his coat (long and black, but reasonably cheap, not one Harold had bought for him) and folds it carefully into a makeshift pillow for Harold. Then he drops onto his back.  
  
Harold thanks him and gets as comfortable as he possibly can. He's somewhat worried about sliding down the slope of the hill, unlikely as that is. After a moment's hesitation, John makes a disgruntled noise and then shifts so that his head is on Harold's shoulder. Harold's first ever gunshot wound has healed by now, so the weight is not unpleasant. He winds his arm around John with a contented hum, and draws his knees up, feet firmly on the ground to lessen his perception of weightlessness and vertigo.  
  
The shimmering pinpricks of light glitter above them. Harold groups them into clusters, mentally dividing up the night sky into patterns, automatically running through all the names for the constellations, both scientific and mythological.  
  
At the same time, the Machine brings the web of nodes and connectors to life in Harold's mind's eye, calculating probabilities, while Van Gogh's painting superimposes itself over it all.  
  
John's mind, evidently, is wandering down a darker path. "I can't help thinking they're dying out there. They're dead before the last light they ever gave out even reaches us."  
  
Harold pokes him in the chest, tries to squeeze the melancholy out of him. "And more are being born to replace them, don't forget. Another star is formed every 0.0002 seconds. Everything is continually renewed. Change is the essential process of all existence."  
  
John sighs, apparently accepting the wisdom of what Finch is saying. He squeezes Harold's wrist, a wordless 'thank you'. And then he pauses. Something seems to occur to him.  
  
" _Star Trek_ reference, Finch?"  
  
Harold's eyebrows dart up. "Oh you caught that, did you? We'll have to watch it together sometime."  
  
John is triumphant. "I _knew_ you'd be a Trekkie." He lets go of Finch's hand, holds up his own and spreads his fingers into pairs. Tries to get Finch to high-five him like that, but Harold rolls his eyes and bats John's hand down.  
  
"I was quite obsessed with it. Especially the technology, of course. Built myself a small collection of type one and two phaser models as an easy circuitry project when I was a teenager."  
  
"You utter geek." John chuckles, and Harold winces. He's opened himself up to an enormous avenue for teasing. But instead Reese rolls over and kisses him, achingly fond. Propped up on his elbows, John's craning his neck so Finch doesn't have to. "Your brain is sexy," he continues. "Remember the time you hacked the FBI's comms and simultaneously took out every cellphone in a five mile radius except ours? I was stuck in an elevator with Root, you and I weren't properly together yet, but I wanted you even then."  
  
Harold remembers. Another perilous situation. Another rooftop in the dark. He hadn't the time to stargaze that time. Harold files away John's admission of desire to think about during the lonely nights ahead.  
  
He runs a fingertip across John's cheekbone. John is so precious to him. Keeping him alive is worth any risk, any painful separation, any moral boundary Harold might have to cross. "I'll do anything to save you," he murmurs, and it scares him to comprehend how much that is true.  
  
John shuts his eyes and leans into Harold's hand. "Likewise."  
  
There is nothing Harold can possibly do other than kiss him again, dragging his fingers back through John's silver-streaked hair.  
  
John leans more completely over Harold, kneeling up and straddling Finch's good leg. "We won't need these cover identities for long, right?" He asks, in-between increasingly fervent kisses. "Once you rebuild the team, we can beat Samaritan and get back to working the numbers."  
  
"I would like to think..." Harold starts, slipping undone a button on John's shirt. Now is not really the time for this conversation. After the congressman, Harold's still not sure he's ever going back to working for the Machine. But he doesn't want to argue about this tonight.  
  
John nips at his lower lip, unaware of Harold's inner conflict. "Can you promise me?"  
  
"I don't know anything for sure, John." But then he thinks of that sky again, those stars, and realises he knows one thing for certain. "Except that...you are very dear to me. And you ought to know it, once and for all, in case we don't get many more nights like this."  
  
John snorts, to Harold's surprise and consternation. "Now who's being fatalistic. Love you too, jackass."  
  
Harold lies there beneath him, brow furrowed at John's tone and language, mouth open ready to argue, before he considers the contents of John's statement and thinks better of it. "Right." He manages, a bit blindsided. Only to shiver all over when John allows his thigh to brush against Harold's groin.  
  
John's green eyes are very close, and twinkling with mischief. "It's a cold night out here. We should get inside."  
  
Harold groans as John eases off him. He holds out his hands to help Harold up. Harold gratefully accepts, getting carefully to his feet. Then John gathers up the blanket, his coat, and his phone.  
  
Harold makes his way back up the lawn, John following soon after. They're almost at the door when John suggests: "Maybe we could try meeting in public sometime?"  
  
Harold's immediate instinct is to say 'no'. He finds himself saying 'yes'. "The chess tables in Washington Square Park? There's nothing to stop two strangers casually meeting for a game, I suppose."  
  
"Now you're talking," John says, and pulls Harold into the house and up to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream. - Vincent Van Gogh
> 
> "Just above our terror, the stars painted this story in perfect silver calligraphy. And our souls, too often abused by ignorance, covered our eyes with mercy." ― Aberjhani, I Made My Boy Out of Poetry
> 
> "The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things." ― [Sylvia Plath, Insomniac](http://allpoetry.com/poem/8498471-Insomniac-by-Sylvia-Plath) 
> 
>  
> 
> [The Machine's layout looking like stars/constellations](http://screencapped.net/tv/personofinterest/displayimage.php?album=21&pid=42574#top_display_media)
> 
>  
> 
> [Inspiration for Reese's view of the sky in Afghanistan](http://www.nocaptionneeded.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/Afghan-night-stars.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [Brooklyn at night across the water](http://www.goodwp.com/images/201206/goodwp.com_22222.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [Van Gogh's The Starry Night](http://uploads2.wikiart.org/images/vincent-van-gogh/the-starry-night-1889%281%29.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> "Change is the essential process of all existence." - [Star Trek: TOS, Spock in 3x15 Let That Be Your Last Battlefield](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vi7QQ5pO7_A)
> 
>  
> 
> [A star is born every 0.0002 seconds](http://www.ism.ucalgary.ca/Star_Formation/How_Often.html)


End file.
